Close Those Shutters, You Aren't Getting Out
by raistss
Summary: Set after Roti, however Hannibal and Chilton have not existed in Will's world yet. Follows the Shutter Island plot in the present, flashes back to everything pre-Roti in Hannibal. Will Graham investigates the disappearance of a patient at the Ashecliffe Mental Hospital, and stumbles across something much more complex. Rated T for thematic elements, language, and graphic violence.


A/N: Alright, I've been thinking about this one for a while. Giving it a shot. I hope Hannibal isn't too out of character, I'll be quoting both the show and the movie a lot but otherwise I'm really not too keen on his character.

* * *

Will Graham was hunched over the sink, nausea pulling at his already exhausted body. He'd seen far too much in the past months, and the sea sickness wasn't helping. He was a fisherman, yes; he could boat as well, but he never did like oceans.

The endless expanse of water bothered him.

He vomited abruptly, his thick-rimmed glasses nearly falling off of his nose with the force of the action. Will stood up, feeling slightly better, and turned the water on, washing the bile down the drain and splashing some of the cool water on his hot, sweat-slicked face.

He'd just been released from a hospital days before, where he'd suffered a fever of 105°F for several days. Will had been on a case - despite his sickness he'd been trailing Abel Gideon, who'd been admitted to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, charged with the crimes committed by the Chesapeake Ripper. Will, however knew he was not the Ripper, and when the man escaped he knew what he'd do.

Will had saved Alana Bloom, then collapsed in the snow, blood staining the pure white until it reached his face. He'd barely been conscious, but he could remember her face, blurred, then red and blue lights and a black tunnel, swallowing him in his fever.

Will had no therapist. Jack Crawford had made him go to one for a psych evaluation after having killed Garret Jacob Hobbs, but after that he saw no one outside of work except his dogs at home and, on occasion, Alana or Beverly Katz.

He listened to the clink of handcuffs around him for a moment, feeling fear settle in the pit of his stomach.

Will never did like going to mental institutions. He was afraid they wouldn't let him out.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter had been assigned as his partner. The man stood tall, resting his forearms on the railing along the side of the ferry. His stance was firm, self-assured, despite the rocking of the sea. He was dressed for the occasion, a peacoat over a three-piece suit in stark contrast to Will's plaid shirt and ratty jacket.

"Not the best first impression, with my head halfway down the toilet," Will said as a greeting. He clutched the railing with white knuckles.

Lecter took in his disheveled appearance calmly before speaking. "It is of no importance, Mr. Graham. I have had much worse first impressions." He gazed out at the water, the foggy, cloudy sky above.

Will cleared his throat, cringing at the taste of bile in the back of his throat. "It's Will, please. Do you prefer Hannibal or...?"

"Whichever suits you, Will." He spoke his name softly, as if contemplating the taste of the word in his mouth. Will glanced at him from the side of his glasses, the frame obstructing his view of the other man's eyes.

"Not fond of eye contact, are you, Will?" Hannibal was calculating. Will felt slightly threatened.

"Eyes are distracting. You see too much, don't see enough..." He trailed off, not finishing his train of thought. Sweat dripped from his brow.

"I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet you are shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone area of your skull for the things you love." Hannibal watches Will intently. He squirms inside of himself.

"Please don't psychoanalyze me. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed." His voice has dropped, threatening. Hannibal seals his lips, thinking for a moment.

"I would apologize, but I know I will soon be apologizing again, and you'll tire of that eventually. So I have to consider using apologies sparingly."

"Just keep it professional." Will is still annoyed, but too tired to fight it.

"Or we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly."

"I don't find you that interesting."

"You will." He pauses, waiting for Will to respond. When nothing comes, he changes the subject.

"Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters."

"That's a superstition."

"I called your good friend Dr. Bloom about you. She wouldn't gossip, not a word. She's very protective of you. Smitten, I would say. She asked me to keep an eye on you."

Will studies Hannibal, memories of her face, blurred and flushed from the cold, flashing past his eyes. He recalls kissing her, and when she'd left. He says nothing, looking out towards the horizon.

"There's Boston Harbor," he muses, aloud. "Or, Shutter Island."

"Quite a threatening name, wouldn't you agree?" Hannibal is not poking around his skull anymore, he's genuinely curious. Will picks up on this quickly. He says nothing.

"Look at the horizon. Concentrate on something that doesn't change, doesn't move." Hannibal is making a suggestion, his lips curling up slightly.

"Everything changes," Will replies, unconvinced.

"Not the sky," Hannibal says.

Will watches as the ferry nears the island. "Did you get any kind of...briefing, about the institution before you left?"

Hannibal glances over at him. "A mental hospital."

"For the criminally insane," Will finishes, his voice hitching on 'insane.' He supposes if it were just people hearing voices and chasing butterflies, as he'd been taught through stereotypes before joining the police force, they wouldn't be needed there.

The island draws near - close enough for Will to make out features. It's tall, rocky, and grey. A lighthouse juts out in the distance, and buildings surrounded by trees lay within a fenced perimeter. There's a dock, long and worn. Everything else looks impassable.

"That's where we're headed?" He can't help the twinge of fear underlining the words. The ferry captain walks up behind him.

"Other side of the island is rock bluffs, straight down to the water." He pauses, looking them over. "No place to land, nor even moor. The dock, it's the only way on. Or off," he adds as an afterthought.

"Probably came in handy when this was a POW camp," Will mutters. "Tasteless."

"Do you trouble with taste?" Hannibal asks.

"My thoughts are often not tasty." He replies, evenly. "This was a camp, back in the Civil War. They built a fort there and barracks - it was a battalion HQ for a while, before they started using it for Confederate prisoners."

"We'll be casting off again as soon as you two are ashore," the captain says. "I'd appreciate it if you were quick about it." He's afraid. Will glances back at him.

"Why?"

He nods towards the horizon, and Will notices dark, looming storm clouds rolling towards them. "Storm's comin'," he says, simply.


End file.
